Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (38 page)

“I don't know, but it's damn big.”

“Russian?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“It's white. Russian ships are always white,” I said. A feeling of dread was beginning to bind my throat. I didn't want to believe this was happening.

“Yes, but so are a lot of other ships,” returned Macho. He sounded more sanguine than I, and the tone of his voice lifted my spirits.

As the ship moved closer, it was evident that those aboard had spied us. Several men were hanging over the rails of the boat, waving their arms wildly and hollering something to us. But I couldn't tell what they were saying—or whether their movements were friendly or hostile.

“Can you read the lettering on the boat?” shouted Macho.

“Not from here, can you?”

“No. What do you want to do?”

“There's not much we
can
do. If it's a Russian ship, they'll have guns, artillery. There's no way to escape them.”

Back in Cojimar, Gerardo was manning the radio, listening to the open airwaves for any information regarding my disappearance. Lazo, Manny, and several other soldiers were standing by, examining maps of the area that were spread on an old wooden table.

Lieutenant Brown looked on almost casually, knowing full well that Pino was not thinking the way I would. Not being a military strategist, he had made many tactical errors in his attempt to find me. And Brown was content to let him continue to make them.

Since their thorough search of the docks and the fishermen's boats had yielded nothing, Pino was eager for any scrap of news. He glanced at Manny and Lazo who were talking softly to each other. He strained to overhear their conversation. He still suspected they knew more about my disappearance then they had let on.

Suddenly, a grin crossed Gerardo's face and he turned toward Pino.

“I've got a report that a ship is approaching what's believed to be two boats of Cuban refugees needing medical assistance.”

The soldiers looked up expectantly. A broad smile crossed Pino's face. He was almost salivating. “That's him.” He grabbed Macho's brother by the arm excitedly. “That's my man.”

“It could very well be,” said Gerardo levelly, although he found Pino's excitement about this development annoying. His back stiffened and he looked at the lieutenant with an astringent eye.

“What are they saying?” demanded Pino.

“I can't quite make it out,” said Gerardo. “It's an SOS, but they aren't talking directly to us. I'm only intercepting this.”

A heavy mist blew in as we drew closer to the boat, making it impossible to make out the name of the ship. It had reduced its speed and was heading our way. A man was leaning over the side of the ship photographing us.

It didn't seem typical of Russian behavior, but I couldn't be sure. Perhaps they were refugee sympathizers documenting our escape for history. Or perhaps they were Russian communists gathering evidence for a trial. There were no tracks in the snow for me to follow, and I didn't want to take any chances.

People in our two boats began arguing among themselves about what we should do. Some believed it was a friendly ship that would provide us with much-needed medical attention.

Others thought we should refuse to step on board. They wanted us to take our chances getting to Florida on our own. I was besieged
by doubts about what action to take. I didn't have enough information on which to base such a momentous decision. I was in desperate need of something—or someone—to guide me.

The soldiers remained calm, quiet, and alert, confident in my ability to handle the situation.

Manny and Lazo looked on anxiously as Pino pushed Gerardo aside, attempting to preempt his actions.

“Give me that radio. I'm taking over now,” he said.

“No, you're not,” said Gerardo, pushing him back. “This is my job. I'm in charge here.”

“Damn it, I want the coast guard to go after those worms and pick them up immediately,” barked Pino.

“But if it isn't a Russian ship, it could turn into an international incident,” said Gerardo. “We've got to be careful. I could lose my head over something like this.”

Pino scowled at him and let loose with a colorful string of expletives before saying, “You're making too much of this. Just do as I say. Send out the coast guard. We need to get to these fugitives before the Americans claim them.”

Gerardo eyed him warily. “I need more information,” he said, trying to keep his resentment from showing. “I've seen this kind of thing before. It can get very complicated very quickly, and then we'll have Fidel down our throats. I'm not chancing it. I'm going by the book.”

Pino mumbled something incomprehensible, and all eyes turned back toward Gerardo. He looked the lieutenant up and down. Neither man appeared ready to back off. Pino glared at Gerardo while Gerardo thought for a moment. There was a long, pregnant pause. Everyone in the room stood somber and silent. Finally, Gerardo told Pino that he was not turning this situation over to him without knowing exactly who he was after.

“I need the name and description of the man for my records,” he said.

Pino heaved a heavy sigh, exasperated at Gerardo's intransigence. He glanced at his watch impatiently. He drew a picture of me from his chest pocket, angrily slapping it down on the desk. “That's him: Frankie Mederos. Are you satisfied now? That's the guy I'm after.”

Gerardo picked up the picture and examined it closely. The man in the photograph looked somehow familiar, and he was feeling a vague sense of unease. Then it struck him who I was. While he didn't know my name, he knew my face from the night of our confrontation in Macho's home. It suddenly dawned on him that I was the man his brother had tried to help escape.

The muscles in his face began twitching, alerting him to danger. His eyes moved back and forth as his mind raced to make a connection. It occurred to him that if I had left the country, Macho might be with me. And so might his nieces and nephew.

His mind returned to the morning his nephew stood among the crowd, hugging his teddy bear for comfort and protection. He pictured the boy's small hands, his narrow shoulders, and his shy, timid smile. Then he thought of how his nieces always greeted him with hugs and laughter. As tough as Gerardo was, he couldn't bear the thought of them all being killed.

Not hesitating a moment, he threw the photo down on the table and flew out the door before Pino could react or object. He was mumbling something about urgent business, leaving the lieutenant standing confused and speechless. Manny and Lazo watched him in amazement. The door banged shut behind him, punctuating his departure like an exclamation point.

Gerardo ran up the hill to Macho's house, hoping against hope to find him there. He raced up the front steps and rapped repeatedly on the front door. No answer. He frantically tried to turn the knob, but the door was locked, something Macho and his wife never did.

He cupped his hands against the reflection as he peered through the living room window. The interior of the house was oddly dark and lifeless—no cooking smells, no radio playing, no children laughing.
His heart sank like a boulder when he realized the house was empty. He drew in a deep breath, knowing for certain that Macho and his whole family were with me.

The captain of the
Gran Lempira,
a Guatemalan freighter, was hauling cargo to Canada when he spotted two boats filled to capacity and struggling to make their way to America. Suspecting we were Cuban refugees, he immediately radioed the United States Coast Guard.

“I've got two small boats full of people in my line of sight,” he reported.

“What's your determination?” inquired the American officer.

“Best guess: Cuban refugees.”

“Number?”

“Thirty to thirty-five.”

“Destination?”

“On course for the Florida Keys.”

The captain had dealt with refugees from this large Caribbean island before, and he knew that few boats came across the bow of his ship without passengers in need of immediate medical attention. Sympathetic to the fact that refugees risked their lives for freedom, he was eager to get us to safety as quickly as possible.

“Request permission to take them aboard.”

“Permission granted. I'm notifying the Guard in Key West—a boat will be on its way shortly.”

Having returned to his post at the fort, Gerardo picked up the American rescue order on the airwaves.

“What have you got?” demanded Pino. Gerardo glanced at Manny and Lazo who were listening intently. Thinking Macho and his family
were safe, Gerardo told Pino, “The United States Coast Guard has been alerted. The Americans are coming to rescue the refugees now.”

Manny, Lazo, and Lieutenant Brown looked at each other. They stifled smiles while Pino fumed. They had never seen him so angry. Eyes ablaze, he stood up abruptly and kicked over a chair. “The hell they are,” he roared.

Alarmed, Gerardo could only stare. This was not behavior he expected from a military officer. This lieutenant was clearly overwrought. He seemed to have lost his ability to reason. This was a potentially explosive situation that could quickly spin out of control.

“Dispatch two Cuban boats to arrest them,” ordered Pino, his voice coarse with rage. “They may still be closer to Cuba than to the United States. Hurry, damn it, while there's still a chance to bring them in.”

Gerardo knew better than to confront the Americans, and he wanted to get that point across to Pino without engaging him in a violent confrontation. This was a tall order, since he himself was seething, none too happy that the lieutenant was throwing his weight around. He tried to siphon the anger from his voice.

“I don't think that's wise,” he said through clenched teeth.

“It's wise if I say so.” Pino was not about to have his authority challenged by Gerardo.

This guy is loco,
thought Gerardo. He regarded the lieutenant with disdain. He knew the personality type. Calm to the point where he exploded in anger. And if you challenged him, it was curtains—maybe not immediately, but eventually. The man was relentless.

Gerardo paused, assessing the situation while growing more anxious by the moment. It was the height of the Cold War, and people were trigger-happy.

He looked at Pino. “Do you remember the Missile Crisis, Lieutenant?”

“Of course,” said Pino.

“Well, maybe you don't remember very well.” He hesitated. “Or maybe you've never seen pictures of the victims of Hiroshima.”

“I don't need you to talk to me about Hiroshima.”

“Damn it, I'm going to talk about it,” said Gerardo. “In case you've forgotten, the whole island of Cuba could be incinerated with the touch of a nuclear button. We could be on the brink of triggering the largest disaster this country has ever seen. I consider myself to be a tough guy, but I'm not stupid.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

Gerardo glared at the lieutenant. “I'm trying to keep you from starting a goddamn war. And if you keep up this behavior, that's exactly what will happen.”

“I'll do what I damn well please,” responded Pino. “I'm not going to start a war, and I'm not about to have my career ruined over the likes of you.”

Pino pushed Gerardo roughly aside and issued an order for the Cuban coast guard to bring us back—dead or alive.

I stared up at the ship, desperately trying to figure out what to do. Although I couldn't see them clearly, the people on the ship gave every indication of being friendly. But it could all be a trick. I had been through too much not to be careful, not to be suspicious.

I turned and looked at the passengers in my boat and then at those in Macho's boat. A small boy was asleep on his mother's lap, exhausted and oblivious to his surroundings. Mucus caked his nostrils and his breathing was ragged. He looked like he was running a fever.

I stared at the two pregnant women, both sitting with their hands folded neatly beneath their stomachs, and thought about their babies. It was almost too much to take in. The lives of thirty-one people—as well as two unborn children—were in my hands. I had to make the right decision.

I turned and looked at Miguel. For an old man, he was hardy and
alert. Out of the blue, a thought occurred to me. I climbed over several people and moved my body next to his. Many of the passengers were studying me. Suddenly, a stark silence descended over the boat. The only sound was the raspy breathing of a sick child. It felt like the moment before the heavy velvet drapes rise at a theatrical performance. Everyone was watching.

“Miguel,” I said, “I need to talk to you.” He looked at me curiously, sensing that I was about to ask him an important question. I cleared my throat and narrowed my eyes.

“How old are you, Miguel?” I asked bluntly. There was no time for further preamble.

“Eighty-three.”

“Have you had a good life?”

“Good enough.”

I waited a moment. “Well, you have already lived your life. I know you would like to live a few years longer but, under the circumstances, would you be willing to do something for the lives of others?”

Miguel sat up straighter and shifted his weight. He looked at me respectfully. “I would,” he declared like a true Cuban gentleman.

“Good.”

“What do you want me to do?”

I took his hand in mine. “Look at me. I want you to be the first one to go onto the ship—like a canary in the mine shaft. If everything is on the up-and-up, walk to the back of the ship and give me a signal—wave to me that it's okay. If it's a Russian ship, don't come out—even if they pressure you, even if they threaten to kill you. You must be willing to die rather than betray us. Will you do that for us, Miguel?”

The old man hesitated for just a moment as if trying to absorb what I was asking him. Then his eyes cleared of confusion and a sense of purpose eclipsed his fear.